


I'm Gonna Be (Here Always)

by GeekishChic



Series: Soundtrack [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Among All That Violence, And All The Complete Madness That Goes With It, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Mental Instability, Mentions of past abuse, Self Harm, Sorry So Short, Suicidal Thoughts, Toxic Relationships, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7705513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is paranoid as hell. No matter how many times Sebastian proves himself, Jim continues to feel the need to <del>torture</del> test him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Gonna Be (Here Always)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [distantstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/gifts), [LadyJupiter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJupiter/gifts).



> Based on [THIS](http://colonel-sebastienne-moran.tumblr.com/post/126868751744/un1tamed1fox-when-i-wake-up-well-i-know-im/) gifset
> 
> Link to the song at the bottom of the gifset

It wasn't that the former colonel had never woken up groggy in the middle of a field without knowing how he got there. Hell, it was how he spent most of his free time before the military. At least he had clothes on this time. And it wasn't October.

He sat up, immediately assuming the crash position as the world spun a bit, but refused to lay down again, even as every cell shouted at him to do so. The Sebastian-shaped imprint in the tall, emerald grass was still warm, while the rest of it, the rest of him, was working off what seemed to be the chill of early morning, according to the sun's position. He stood slowly, patting his jeans pockets, but not really expecting to find anything. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep after a single beer, which of course never happened. It was a gamble, Jim bringing him anything to eat or drink. But that was part of his charm, the adrenaline rush Sebastian would get from something as simple as what seemed like a kind gesture. James Moriarty was a lovely little cottage with faulty wiring. You never knew if it would work fine, give you a mild shock, electrocute the fuck out of you, or start a fire that would consume the whole place and anything else within a city block.

It was rectangular, ultra slim and compact, accompanied by another hard lump in his back left hand pocket. That lump was the tightly folded cord of a pair of black ear buds, fit into the appropriate hole in the little black phone. He then turned it on to see there were only three things in the center of the screen. A video link, entitled 'Watch Me First', a playlist application, and a Sat Nav one.

"Hello, my dear," came the familiar voice brushed gently with the Irish lilt he'd never forget the taste of. "We're going to play a little game. This phone is quite durable, water resistant, and unable to be tracked by any other means. So if you lose it or, as is your special talent, find a way to destroy it... well... let's just say you'll be out of luck." He glanced again at his surroundings, attempting to figure out his position, though it was impossible, as he'd have no frame of reference until he chose a direction in which to go. He didn't want to do that yet in case he went the opposite way, and stretching this out even a few minutes longer was not on. "You shall have to walk home, using the route I've been nice enough to map out for you. The only equipment you're to keep on you are the phone, a spare battery or two, and the earphones. No money, no weapons, not even a paper clip." His body wanted to sit again, but he knew he would waste precious time if he did so. Knowing his body well meant he knew it was, at the moment, far from being in a dire situation. "The playlist is on repeat and has the perfect soundtrack for your journey. You are to listen to it the entire time, even if you decide to waste some of that time sleeping." Sebastian couldn't help a huff of sour mirth at Jim's cheek. "Every time you reach a designated milestone, there will be food, water, and a fully charged battery. You are to text me a line from the song accompanied by a photo at each stop. A short video would also be acceptable, as I do so enjoy seeing the auburn hair colour on you." Sebastian rolled his eyes skyward. "Don't roll your eyes, Tiger. You know that if you want to stay, you'll have to play." It was eerie as fuck when Jim did that, demonstrated he knew every nuance of Sebastian's existence. It was also, oddly, the tiniest bit comforting, that he did not have to pretend or even have a long conversation to get his point across. Moran prominently disregarded anything having to do with emotions, because, although he was sure that madman had them, of a sort anyway, things never went well when they were mentioned. "Now! You are to use the phone for no other purpose. I'll know if you cheat and it. will not. go well for you." Not going well could have been anything from being parted from Jim when he went into a dangerous situation, to a session of outright torture, that would last until Jim's mood improved. That could be anywhere from an hour to several days.

If he was honest, the being unnecessarily apart one was actually worse than the torture. If Jim was there with him, he wasn't somewhere he could potentially be seriously hurt or killed. This included those extremely dark periods, where Sebastian's boss would want to try anything to quiet the constant ravings of a mind too clever by half, too full of important things that sometimes got jumbled, and only wanted some semblance of peace. Moran couldn't help him with that if he couldn't be there. Requiring pictures and texts was even a form of it, of keeping the tall, lithe ex-soldier close at hand. If one of Jim's black moods struck during a being apart-type punishment, then... well... Sebastian savagely cut off that line of thinking when his mind unhelpfully supplied the latest memory of him stitching up Jim's many self-inflicted knife wounds, telling him in a far away monotone that he was saving a main artery for last.

"You have ten days from when you activate this recording," Jim said, having been un-paused, as Sebastian needed a moment to get his head together. "Ten twenty-four hour periods. You're lucky it's only five hundred miles, and not the thousand the song dictates." With a sing-songy "Good luuuck!" the video ended and he was already calculating his position as he opened the map. He was obviously North of their main London flat, and five hundred miles would mean he was in Scotland, maybe thirty-five miles outside of Inverness. Sure enough, as he began trekking Southward, the Proclaimers confessing their willingness to do just as he was doing, only with thick Scottish brogues and upbeat music, a wee town called Aviemore popped up as his current location on the screen.

His trainers were new at least.

He made it to Pitlochry, shaving hours off of his commute by cutting straight through the national park, as opposed to following the A9. He didn't _think_ it was cheating, the Sat Nav constantly changing to keep up with his route. But he had days to find out whether or no Jim's changeable personality would name him traitor on this particular issue, and there was no use being nervous about it. Survival was the most important thing at the moment; an even higher priority than that damn song. This primary stopping point was actually the second, as he deemed the first, an abandoned, rat-infested cottage, not comfortable enough in which to sleep off the rest of the drug's effects. So he merely took the required picture, prominently displaying a rude hand-gesture in the foreground, yet making sure his face was clear. Jim would definitely have his guts for garters if his face was blurred out, even for artistic effect. Moran wasn't totally sure the man didn't have garters made from the intestines of some wrongdoer or another. Then, 322 rounds of the song later, he expressed his disdain in a colourful, yet poignant manner, citing in the video what Jim could do with his choice once he returned, before offering to do it for him with a shark-like grin, and ending the recording. He reached the Pitlochry School For All Ages, seemingly the one modern looking building in the whole burgh that probably would have gone under long ago, if it wasn't for Moriarty's financial support, for whatever reasons his boss did such things. Often, it was a dummy corporation that owned a business responsible for other businesses on down the line until it reached this school getting new PE equipment or text books. He was served a large bowl of a hearty, fragrant stew, by his contact, a buxom dark-haired thing with ice blue eyes; eyes that didn't change at all when he turned on his charm, attempting to convince her to break her instructions to only allow him one pint, absolutely no whisky, but all the water he could drink whilst he was there, and she answered his efforts with a revolver pointed in a way that denoted she knew exactly how to use it. The kids were on holiday and a girl had to protect herself. He couldn't help but continue to smirk as he held his hands up apologetically and took several steps back, sitting down on the meager cot set up in the headmaster's office beneath a large window in order to take his meal and rest, even providing him with a couple of fags on the tray.

He helped himself to a hearty breakfast in the canteen, per the instructions left in a note slipped under the only exit to the room he didn't have to make with an improvised tool. The window had no proper way to open it more than a crack. Not that it needed to. If he was going to get out, he would damn sure get out. He waited until the very last moment before he plugged in the ear buds, as he had been playing it aloud the entire night, per instructions, and turned the volume of that bloody song up again, bursting through the door that most closely faced the direction in which he needed to go. The newborn sun was just making itself known, and it had rained a few hours earlier. It all was actually rather motivating now that he was no longer impaired. His steps fell in time with the rather quick rhythm, sometimes double time if he felt the urge. The lyrics held specifically relevant meaning for the most part, and belting the tune at the top of his lungs kept him company through the many cold stone, squelching mud, and vast, misted emerald expanses between stops.

Sometimes he'd just take a photo. Sometimes he would record a long video, delete it, then do a short one that said nothing about how he wished Jim wouldn't spring these tests on him all the time, how he knew how difficult it was to trust anybody with anything, and how he knew that, somewhere in the eye of the hurricane that was his mind, he knew he could trust Moran, that he'd always find a way to get to him, to help him, to be whatever was needed. When Jim was in the final moments before what little sleep he got, he would make a confession of sorts, a remnant of him growing up Catholic, Moran figured. He would have Sebastian practically swaddle him with expansive limbs, firmly enveloping his whole, compact body, and from him would pour the most abject tales of woe. Sebastian had seen things, been through things, especially in the war, but the things James Moriarty had gone through before he was even big enough to lift Moran's trusty AWC* was enough for ten lifetimes. And Moran could never mention anything about it in the light of day. Ever. Learning this nearly cost him his life, after that first time. He had a nice scar in the form of a word on the shoulder Jim preferred to lay his head on, so that for many weeks after, he was reminded of his transgression, of breaking the seal of confession.

_Tost_ , it said. Silence.

When it had completely healed a few months later, he incorporated it into a proper tattoo.

_Is binn béal ina tost_ which was an extremely loose Irish Gaelic translation of the old proverb 'Silence is golden'. Jim hadn't said anything about it upon seeing it, but Moran found a matching pair of custom Kimber 1911s under his pillow after that first night of enduring the pain of Jim laying on the fresh, now intentionally self-inflicted scar tissue. The Americans couldn't make whisky worth a shite, but their firearms were top notch. And the sort of sentimental tripe contained within his first drafts of video would earn him yet another serious injury, he was positive. So he used this time to get everything out, used the phone and Jim's instructions as a sort of visual diary, freeing the words into the ether when he was done and recording the message he would actually send directly after.

He stood on the bank of the Thames at nearly 06:00, several hours earlier than the deadline, and gazing at the top floor of the building across the way in the breaking sun. It didn't look like Jim was in residence, but then, that was always on purpose. Jim liked his many residences to remain museum quality, to the point where he'd sent Moran to warn more than a few cleaners that didn't do some minor chore exactly right because of time constraints or the fact that Jim was insane. Sometimes they didn't survive that warning and sometimes Sebastian would get in trouble for it, while other times, he was rewarded greatly. But Moran could usually tell which it would be now, so that was something.

He looked to either side of himself, judging the differences in distance, and found that actually swimming across would be quickest as well as the least immediately taxing. So in he went, making a minimal splash and going a good distance under water before having to surface to breathe and make sure of his direction in the murky water. He emerged on the other side, hauling himself out and keeping himself from running by the skin of his teeth. He'd no idea who or what he'd come home to, and so needed to conserve the last of his energy until he acquired that information. He entered a code he was given just as he approached the grand flat's artfully carved and magnificently reinforced double doors. Jim had eyes on him, but it didn't mean he was anywhere nearby.

But there he was, standing casually in one of his character suits. The charcoal tweed and striped faint blue button-up, both from off the racks, were as far from who he was as possible. Though he combed his hair back as usual, it wasn't neat as a pin, as it was when he was going out to be himself. The scruff on his face was a touch longer than he liked to keep it. Of course, Moran knew better than to ask, or do anything else until Jim did something first.

Jim smiled. And it was a happy one. He was genuinely pleased. Still, Sebastian knew not to let his guard down yet.

"Welcome home, Tiger. I trust you had lovely little walk?"

Sebastian grinned back, satisfied at this small moment of positivity, however fleeting it may have been. "Had a bit of a bother round about Leeds, but those blokes didn't need all of their fingers. They'll not try that again for a long-"

He was suddenly on his back, head ringing from banging it, Jim's weight, more substantial than one would think, even to someone of Sebastian's size, pressing down on his abdomen. Somehow, his hands were bound behind him, beneath him, and he caught Moriarty's black eyes just as the leg shackles were clicked shut, unsure of how he got down there so quickly. The mad bastard had somehow, some fucking way, accessed his video diary entries, he was absolutely sure of it. Moran knew he'd never fully figure him out, but of the few triggers about which he _did_ know, that was a big one. So he remained quiet, knowing any little thing could set Moriarty off. Well, further, anyway.

Moriarty crawled back up to his former position, using Moran's combat knife, the one he lovingly kept in peak condition(read: so sharp, the air from it would start cutting you before it even made proper skin contact)was working before the owner could even collect himself enough to even know what was happening. And that was an extremely quick thought process. Per the usual, however, Moriarty was several steps ahead. The smaller man sliced Moran's t shirt up the middle with absolutely zero effort, then put the tip of the blade to the skin of his left pectoral, slightly above his heart and, without hesitating, continued to carve a heart shape that was at least four inches high. So keen was the blade and so full of adrenaline was Moran, the wound didn't even hurt yet. When Moriarty got to the tip of the heart, he proceeded to drag a line up the middle of it until he got to the center of it. Moran held his eyes, wanting for all the world to flinch from what he thought he would see in them. But that was the biggest surprise of all, because for a split second, it was Jim, the Jim that would demand to be held through the painful tales of his life's stories. _His_ Jim, in whose voice he always heard, but had never witnessed his eyes filling. Until now.

Just as quickly, the water seemed sucked back into his ducts and the emptiness returned full-throttle. Moriarty looked for all the world as if he would just plunge the knife in and be done with it. It would have taken extremely little energy. If Moran even twitched the wrong way, it may have happened anyway. Then again, it may have happened anyway. But he stared Jim in the face, bared chest heaving, the blood surfacing from the precise cuts and just then beginning to sting a bit.

Then Jim was gone, the Thames water in his clothes, exposed again to the cool air not the only thing chilling Moran. When he returned a short time later, during which Moran remained absolutely still where he lay, it was with a bottle of peroxide and now wearing worn jeans instead of the trousers that matched the suit jacket. Jim unscrewed the the top and unceremoniously dumped it's contents over the wound, causing Sebastian to have to shut his eyes and mouth so none got in. That'll wake you up in the morning. Jim then unbound Sebastian's feet as the ex soldier bit back the grunts of pain, then dropped the cuff key directly onto his wound. Jim looked into one of the full-length mirrors near the door, straightening his tie, running a hand over his raven hair, looking as far from just having done someone grievous injury as possible. All madness aside, it was still impressive as hell.

"Get up and go clean yourself up. You smell appalling." As if to drive his point home, he gave a high and mighty sniff that didn't match his attire in the least, before extracting a pair of black-framed spectacles from his inner pocket. He slipped them on to his face and they managed to fit perfectly whilst looking awkwardly overlarge. "Yes. I prefer jeans with this jacket. What do you think, Tiger? Boring enough for the masses?"

"Yeah, Boss," was all he could say. He was quite adept at escaping from handcuffs whilst maintaining conversation. "Wouldn't look at you twice. I mean, if I were them. I, personally would clock you in a second." Jim turned to him, another genuine smile making a rare appearance.

"Yes. Well. I knew I kept you around for something."

"And here I was thinking you kept me around for the stimulating conversation."

"That, too." He approached, scanning the length of Moran's body as if merely viewing a statue. That's how Sebastian felt, if he was honest, unable to move and hardly being able to breathe. Jim pressed the tip of his right forefinger lightly into the blood freshly welling from Sebastian's movements, then slowly brought it to his mouth. "Don't wait up."

Bloody marvelous. Now he'd have to have a wank, too, and he was so very exhausted. Not to mention having little idea at how he could be so turned on so quickly by someone who had just decided whether or not to just kill him. This was far from the first time it had happened, and would definitely not be the last. But here he was, bleeding and aching, his heart hammering in his chest as fast and as hard as he wanted to... Well, it seemed to be his natural state around Jim, really. By the time he unfroze from just that tiny part of the whole exchange, Jim was gone. Moran escaped within seconds, gathered everything up, including the restraints, then went into the bedroom where, when he flipped the light switch to the 'on' position, that _fucking_ song flooded the place with sound at an almost painful volume. It was basically a fortress, that place, Jim having reinforced all of his homes against outsiders being able to know what was going on in there at any given time. So there would be no barely polite neighbourly complaints and the local constabulary would remain snug in their Yard, or wherever else they had to be tonight, where they had a better chance of being able to actually do something about whatever scene they came upon.

Sebastian turned on the luxurious shower in order for it to warm up. It was large enough for him to have Jim in it, in any which way he felt like being taken, or, rarely, vice versa. He then pulled out one of the field medic kits they kept around everywhere and examined his wound in the nearby full-length mirror. It was so clean a cut, that the scarring would be rather minimal. He decided to leave the dressing of it until after he'd washed up, and took a photo of it for future reference. He'd probably keep the blood-dripping aesthetic and have a calligraphic 'M' etched right in the center.

'M' for 'Mad'.  
'M' for 'Maniac'.  
'M' for 'Mesmerising'.

"DA DA-DA DAAA!" he suddenly answered the lead singers at the top of his voice, as he hopped into the steamed up bullet proof glass booth and shut the door behind him.

"DA DA DA DUM DA-DA DUM DA-DA DUM DA-DA DA DA DAAA!"

 

 

                                                                

                                                                                   

                                                                          

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Click here for [Moran's Route](https://www.google.com/maps/dir/London,+UK/57.1857031,-3.8295603/@54.8011074,-5.5907524,6z/data=!4m9!4m8!1m5!1m1!1s0x47d8a00baf21de75:0x52963a5addd52a99!2m2!1d-0.1277583!2d51.5073509!1m0!3e2/)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *AWC stands for Arctic Warfare Covert, a sniper rifle as seen in the Reichenbach Fall episode.
> 
> Is binn béal ina thost is more closely translated to "It's sweet, a mouth in its silence" or "A silent mouth is sweet."


End file.
